One of my first cousin's married into the Blaine family that has roots in early American politics. Her father-in-law built this pine desk in the early 80s and somehow it migrated to my bedroom when I was a teenager.
Many of my close friends were then, as they are now, living in the midwest USA, and I would spend hours huddled over the pine desktop with pen and paper corresponding with them.
I cut my writer's teeth largely on this desk by learning language, tense, and the subtle art of asking questions that elicit a written response.
My sister had it for some reason and several months ago I intercepted the desk from taking a one-way trip to the dump.
Earlier on this balmy November day, I retrieved the writer's desk and put it in my office. After a decades long delay and a sea change of technology, I write on it again.